


THE FRANKLY ALARMING AND HIGHLY UNNATURAL ORDER OF THINGS IN THE MSBY BLACK JACKALS' PRESENT-DAY UNIVERSE

by perennials



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, M/M, author built personalities for meian thomas and inunaki from scratch and Fell In Love, minions' style inspirational speeches, msby black jackal ensemble cast, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: Nature is healing, the birds are returning, and Miya Atsumu is setting the kitchen on fire.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Inunaki Shion/Adriah Thomas
Comments: 63
Kudos: 579





	THE FRANKLY ALARMING AND HIGHLY UNNATURAL ORDER OF THINGS IN THE MSBY BLACK JACKALS' PRESENT-DAY UNIVERSE

**Author's Note:**

> cw: mentions of alcohol, washing machines, philosophy. this is genuine, 100% organic quarantine fic.  
> [purunto](https://www.google.com/search?q=purunto&client=firefox-b-d&sxsrf=ALeKk02gmudYi5xBsYqfni2ueFctd8uG9w:1589045122348&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwioq7KwpqfpAhWHWX0KHTV4C5YQ_AUoAXoECAwQAw&biw=1536&bih=750&dpr=2.5) is a konnyaku (jelly-like) drink that comes in a plastic pouch. like capri sun but cooler. you will want to know this.  
> sorry to barnes, who is absent because the author almost passed away writing an ensemble cast of 7 and couldn't stand it anymore. no really. no really they can't

_And if somewhere in this great planet_

_The truth is discovered, a patch of it, dried, glazed by the sun,_

_It will just hang on, in its own infamy, humility. No one_

_Will be better for it, but things can't get any worse._

Every evening at six, they have the Animal Crossing debate.

“So,” begins Atsumu. He raps the whiteboard he stole from the hidden walk-in closet. He makes eye contact with each of them in turn except for Inunaki and Thomas and Sakusa, because Inunaki is asleep on Thomas’ shoulder and Thomas is having an existential crisis and Sakusa is studying his nails.

“So,” Shouyou parrots back. Shouyou is the only reason the Animal Crossing debate hasn’t devolved into an Animal Crossing dictatorship. He leans forward in his seat, brushing elbows with Bokuto who is distracted. Bokuto’s Skype hasn’t been working properly all day.

Feeling validated, Atsumu clears his throat. He gestures at the contents of the whiteboard which include his obscene monthly paycheck and Raymond and a list of every online gaming store in Japan.

“Today’s question.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Should I spend a hundred thousand yen—“”

“—Objection your stupid honor, no—” Sakusa.

“—On the Animal Crossing switch which comes with a _tempered glass screen protector_ and the _Animal Crossing pouch_ and the _Animal Crossing: New Horizons game_ and a _laminated mini-poster of Raymond_ or should I—”

Thomas nudges Shuugo’s shoulder. “Is he actually sleeping,” he whispers frantically.

Shuugo glances over at Inunaki. He’s jammed into the side of Thomas' sweater and crunching something imaginary between his teeth. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking of killing someone or thinking of killing someone.

“Yes,” Shuugo whispers back.

“—and destroy the garden,” Atsumu concludes.

The sound of something creaking above them. Bokuto thinks there’s a ghost haunting the attic. Shuugo thinks it might actually be Bokuto haunting the attic. He is simply unaware of the possibility.

“No,” Shouyou says brightly.

“Yes,” Bokuto says distractedly.

Atsumu begins to lean against the whiteboard in an unconscious bid to look like he has everything under control. “What.”

“Don’t destroy the garden and don’t buy the switch,” Shouyou clarifies.

Doubt flashes across Atsumu’s face even though Shouyou has said no to him every single day this week and last week and the week before that as well. Sakusa has produced a nail filer and is filing his nails in his corner of the sofa. Inunaki’s eyes are wide open and he’s looking at Thomas like he wants to kiss him or kill him. Thomas is looking at Shuugo like he wants to kill him.

“Meian-san.”

“Shouyou.”

“Atsumu.” Shouyou is the only reason Atsumu is still sane and also the only reason Atsumu is not quite sane anymore but sort of just dragging himself through each day with his face on the floor.

Sakusa has begun to file the sofa. Atsumu’s whiteboard slides three meters to the left, yanking him off-balance with it. Bokuto gives his phone a half-hearted shake and it bounces harmlessly off Thomas’ shoulder. Inunaki hisses at him.

Atsumu tries again, “is this about the garden or is it about the Animal Crossing. Hey, Shouyou. Are you listening.”

“Where are you going, Meian-san?” Shouyou asks, serene as a Buddha.

“To the bathroom,” Shuugo says after a pause, and then heads up the stairs and locks himself in his room and plays Candy Crush on his phone until he falls asleep.

  
::

  
The lodge was initially Shouyou’s idea. His mother’s friend’s uncle owned a lodge at the base of Mount Fuji and while they usually would have rented it out to AirBNB guests at this time of the year, the website had recently been banned in Japan due to transparency issues and they were good law-abiding citizens, so they stopped. Since they had the space anyway, they said to Shouyou’s mother over tea and rice crackers, would her son be interested in spending a few weeks in the mountains? Of course, there would be a generous discount.

So Shouyou said yes but only discovered later, as he had not thought to ask, that the lodge was not the size of a 2LDK apartment but a small castle. There were six bedrooms and eight bathrooms and a large industry-grade kitchen that contained three bread machines and a brick kiln. There was a barbecue pit in the backyard. They discovered an ouija board presumably left behind by previous inhabitants, Shouyou texted all of them about it over the weekend, and so the deal was done.

Shouyou would go because he liked the mountains and resonated with them spiritually, having cycled up and down one for most of his high school career. Atsumu would go because Shouyou was going. Bokuto would go because two of his friends were going and Sakusa would go because he was promised his own room and two bathrooms, and he was interested in the ouija board. Inunaki would go because he liked mountains despite being the emotional equivalent of a volcano, and Thomas would go because he was still caught in the middle of their fucked-up courtship ritual that had been going on for years now. Shuugo was hired as parental supervision. The Black Jackals could not afford to have their starting lineup incapacitated in the mountains before the next season began.

Naturally this all took place in early March, before the entire situation devolved into mass hysteria and toilet paper shortages and nature’s attempt to reclaim the gacha machines from mankind or whatever. When they arrived at the lodge COVID-19 was only on Sakusa’s mind, because Sakusa read the news religiously. It was also occasionally on Atsumu’s mind, as Atsumu was prone to bouts of sudden and sustained anxiety. However, every time Atsumu made eye contact with Shouyou the matter would be expelled from his mind as a ball, hit out of the ballpark, lands in some deserted parking lot several cities away. So Shuugo figured they would be all right.

Then, of course, they were extremely not all right. But by then all the local supermarket ladies had already fallen in love with Thomas and his cashmere sweaters and his smile. Surely they wouldn’t let them go back down the side of the mountain without trying to tear off a limb. Or two. Or twelve. So they stayed. 

  
::

  
On Friday, Atsumu breaks the washing machine. He claims it broke by itself and that he was simply pressing buttons like a good Japanese citizen but Sakusa later extracts the truth from him, which is that he bodyslammed the washing machine before he tried pressing buttons like a good Japanese citizen. Which makes him a shitty fucking Japanese citizen, said Sakusa. Anyway all the buttons he pressed were the wrong ones, so it wouldn’t have made a difference. Shouyou calls his mother’s friend’s uncle to apologize for the washing machine in the evening and he doesn’t seem that bothered. It was turning twenty-five this year, apparently, which made it an immortal god of a washing machine. Someone would have had to put it in its place eventually.

They don’t tell Atsumu that he broke the twenty-five-year-old washing machine though, because Sakusa’s mad about having to hand-wash all their clothes from now on. Additionally, Atsumu seems to be experiencing emotions in relation to the washing machine as he doesn’t host the Animal Crossing Debate for the first time since they got stuck here, and goes to sulk in Shouyou’s room instead.

Shuugo knocks on Shouyou’s door after dinner, meaning to check on him and make sure Atsumu hasn’t ripped a hole through the bedroom wall that Shouyou shares with Bokuto. He’s a little concerned but not too concerned. There are sounds coming from behind the door, which means that he still has at least one spiker or one setter.

He sticks his head inside. He sticks his head back outside.

He regrets everything.

“Meian-san,” Atsumu says several moments later, fully-clothed and experiencing even more emotions than he had been experiencing when he first found out about the washing machine.

“No.”

“...I’m sorry.”

Shuugo doesn’t have it in him to meet his eyes. He passes along Sakusa’s message with less bite than Sakusa had probably intended, and then goes to the kitchen to look for a drink.

  
::

  
NINTENDO SWTICH  
@m_atsumu

You Will Never Know The Value Of A Moment Until It Becomes A Memory.

  
::

  
“What do you mean you finished all the peach purunto.”

“Uh.” Thomas stares at his feet. He stares at the ant presumably crawling on the floor beside his feet. He stares at Shuugo, who is watching him from the big sofa in the living room and drinking a pouch of grape purunto. “Um,” he repeats in a slightly higher-pitched voice.

Shuugo salutes him for good luck and Thomas' shoulder twitches in response. He can’t make any big movements now or Inunaki will be startled and then try to kill him. This has been the state of affairs between them for a while now, since the Izakaya in December where a waiter tried to take Thomas home and Inunaki almost set their private room on fire.

“I’m sorry,” he tries.

The truth is Thomas doesn’t even like peach purunto. He likes grape purunto because he thinks the peach-flavored stuff doesn’t taste artificial enough. Everyone on the team knows this except for Inunaki, who Thomas has been engaging in a fucked-up courtship ritual for the last fifty-nine years. Everyone also knows that Shuugo and Bokuto have been stealing things from the fridge after midnight and not Thomas, who sleeps like a newborn baby placed in subzero temperatures and thus retires to bed early every night. But Thomas isn’t in a position to tell Inunaki anything.

That being said, neither is Shuugo. Shuugo squeezes the plastic pouch dry. He props his arms up on the back of the sofa, chewing peacefully on the last of his konnyaku, while Inunaki approaches Thomas and Thomas approaches the counter.

Thomas makes a sound when his hip bumps into the drawer. “Sorry,” he says again on instinct. Oh Thomas, Shuugo thinks wistfully.

Inunaki stares up at him. Shuugo can’t see his expression but he can picture it perfectly in his mind. It’s the same expression Inunaki wears when he’s about to receive a nasty serve. It’s the same expression Inunaki wears when he’s deciding what drink to get from the vending machine outside the gym.

“Peach purunto is my favorite.”

“I know.” Thomas does know. Poor guy. Shuugo sends him another prayer.

“So what.”

“What?”

Inunaki’s voice almost cracks here, as if he were the one being cornered and not the one actually doing the cornering: “Am I not your favorite?”

Thomas' knees give out. He slides to the floor. The two of them vanish behind the kitchen counter in a dramatic moment full of romantic tension and fear.

“Is that allowed?” he asks in a voice so high-pitched and breathy and small it probably wouldn’t register on a decibel meter or the Richter scale.

“Do you like me or do you not?”

Shuugo flops silently back onto the sofa and rolls to the ground, excusing himself from the room. He doesn’t need to watch this part.

  
::

  
Or maybe he should have because apparently Thomas said no out of embarrassment and Inunaki flipped him off and stole the third button off his shirt and now there’s a problem. Thomas takes a swig of his shochu mixed with grape purunto. “There’s a problem, Meian-san,” he says miserably. “I only have one good shirt. And now I look like a gravure model.”“Because of the button?”

Another swig. “The button is enough.”

Downstairs Bokuto is talking to Akaashi the shounen manga editor on Skype or at least trying to. Upstairs Sakusa is ransacking the hidden walk-in closet for more cleaning supplies. Last Shuugo checked, Atsumu’s room was empty. Shouyou’s was not. Shuugo is never sticking his head into anything without acquiring firm vocal confirmation of his safety ever again.

“Where is Inunaki-san anyway?” Thomas looks right through him to the other side of the world where he is probably having the time of his life in Paris.

Shuugo thinks about it. He sips at his peach purunto.

“The backyard?”

  
::

  
The story goes that they all wound up in a lodge the size of a small castle at the base of Mount Fuji but then the world blew itself up and everyone got sick. Their supervisors decided, talking anxiously to Shuugo over the phone, that it would actually be better for the Black Jackals’ starting lineup to hang out in the lodge until this whole thing blew over. Was that possible? Please, Meian-san? Please?

Meian Shuugo, being completely defenseless against the word please, immediately turned to Shouyou. Shouyou, being completely defenseless as a general state of being, called up his mother’s friend’s uncle and offered them a generous portion of his obscene paycheck. And Atsumu’s obscene paycheck. And all their paychecks, actually.

Of course you can stay, they said over tea and rice crackers that could not be seen but could be heard over the crackling speaker of Shouyou’s Nokia phone. We don’t really want to go up there ourselves right now anyway, what with the cruise ship and the epidemic and everything.

Thanks, said Shouyou. In the background Sakusa was making Atsumu sign a contract to stop using Sakusa’s second bathroom.

Are you sure you’ll be okay, Shouyou’s mother’s friend’s uncle added as an afterthought.

Shouyou laughed brilliantly and confidently into the receiver.

“Don’t worry, Kishimoto-san,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

  
::

  
Bokuto video calls Akaashi the shounen manga editor every night. They’re boyfriends, so this makes sense. What doesn’t make sense to Shuugo is that Bokuto conducts these video calls in the living room. He has either not discovered the wall socket in his room or decided that he is above it. He has also either not discovered that Akaashi, his shounen manga editor boyfriend, is very busy, or has decided to ignore the fact entirely.

They don’t use Zoom because Akaashi the shounen manga editor has qualms about private user information and where his is going. But Akaashi doesn’t seem to say anything during any of their calls anyway, so no one’s really sure why Bokuto bothers calling to begin with. Is Akaashi the shounen manga editor even real? Is Bokuto imagining things the way he is the ghost haunting the attic? One time Shuugo walked past the sofa while Bokuto was on it. His laptop screen was blank.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, stretching the ‘a’ like a piece of taffy formed from several pieces of taffy stuck together.

“...About the ghost in the attic...”

“...Tsum-tsum broke the washing machine...”

“...I think his name is Jonathan...”

Shuugo gives Bokuto one last glance before leaving the living room with his chips. Who the hell is Jonathan? Who is Bokuto talking to? Today, as well, the mystery remains unsolved.

  
::

  
HEY HEU HEY  
@b_koutarou

MY SKYPE ISN’T WORKING SOMEONE PLEASE HELP

  
hey  
@k_tetsurou

Are you sure it isn’t working. Maybe the other person just doesn’t want to talk?

HEV HEY HEN  
@b_koutarou

SUDDENLY I CANNOT READ

  
::

  
They all find it unnerving that Atsumu politely agrees to do the dishes for the next two weeks as emotional compensation for breaking the washing machine. They find it unnerving that Atsumu doesn’t snap back when Sakusa declares that he is inferior to business majors over dinner on Tuesday. They’re all so busy being generally unnerved that it doesn’t occur to them that Miya Atsumu may have other plans that have temporarily deterred him from being an asshole, such as being an asshole at a later date.

“GONNA TAKE MY HORSE TO THE—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“ —OLD TOWN ROAD—”

“WHAT’S HAPPENING BOKUTO-SAN?”

“RIDE TIL I CAN’T—”

“MEIAN-SAN.”

“THOMAS?”

“ATSUMU.”

Silence. Atsumu turns to look at them. “Shouyou!”

“Atsumu!” Shouyou takes a step towards Atsumu from behind the sofa, where the rest of them are gathered like one’s online shopping information hides behind a firewall. He holds his hands up in front of him, palms out, to indicate non-aggression. “What are you doing?”

“I’m washing the dishes,” says Atsumu, who has clearly given up on washing the dishes.

“And what are those?”

“Portable speakers. Found ‘em in the hidden walk-in closet.”

Shouyou tries to get closer but Atsumu holds up the kitchen hose like a knife and waves it at him. Every decent industry-grade kitchen comes with two meters of kitchen hose these days. It’s a necessary self-defense tactic.

“Come any closer and I’ll hose you. Even if you’re Shouyou.”

“Do you not love me?” Shouyou asks, heartbroken, probably.

“Does he really love him?” Sakusa comments from behind the sofa firewall. 

Thomas and Sakusa exchange a look of equal parts horror and indifference.

“I love you,” Atsumu says, blissfully unaware of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s general existence at this time. He is in Clear Pain. The hose is trembling in his hand and Shuugo fears suddenly that he may let go of it. The water being emptied at breakneck speed into the sink can be dealt with later. If it decides to empty itself in another direction, they will need more than a sofa to save them.

“But I,” Atsumu lowers the hose, shuts the water off. His hands are still soapy and there’s an odd, unhinged look in his eyes. “I can’t wash the dishes in silence.”

Shouyou takes three steps forward. “Why?”

“Well, I mean.” Atsumu tilts his head to one side like a serial killer in a serial killer movie does in the moments before they jump the main character’s best friend who is dictated by cultural tradition to be the first to die. Or maybe Atsumu is the main character’s best friend. Or maybe Atsumu doesn’t watch any serial killer movies.

He tilts his head to the other side quietly.

“It’s boring?”

  
::

  
They let him keep the portable speakers.

  
::

  
Shuugo calls his wife and kids on Skype every other night. On every other other night he wanders around the lodge like a ghost until the early hours of the morning, thinking about unresolved high school conflicts and the next V League season and his grandparents up in Hokkaido. Sometimes he checks the attic for ghosts. Usually he doesn’t. He’s confident he’ll find Bokuto there one day.

“Why don’t you just come back?” his wife asked, the first time they Skyped. He had to explain that he trusted his wife with all his heart when it came to looking after herself and their kids. But, and Shuugo said this earnestly and passionately, he didn’t trust a single member of the MSBY Black Jackals to look after themselves, except maybe Barnes, who was not present. They were professional volleyball players, not professional adults. No one ever really becomes a professional adult.

“This is a good chance for them to learn,” his wife commented, patting the top of Kenta’s head like a buzzer in a gameshow, but more gently.

Shuugo shrugged. “This is a major historical event. They’ll learn some other time.”

Kenta pushed himself up into the camera and said something indistinguishable. It was about Doraemon or the cockroach infestation episode of Gintama and Shuugo wasn’t sure which. He waved back at his eldest son. His eldest son nodded gravely and was buzzered back into his mother’s lap.

“Say bye to daddy, Kenta.”

“Insect repellent.”

“Love you too, kid.”

Tonight is one of those long, sleepless nights. Shuugo ducks into the hidden walk-in closet to see what’s been stolen this week, makes a note of who to yell at the next day, and ducks back out before he can meet anyone he doesn’t want to meet. He checks the toilet paper reserves. He spends an hour lying on the sofa in the living room by himself, scrolling through photos of his family and his dog. His wife sends them every day except for Thursday when she has to catch the live simulcast of her favorite drama on NHK. Kenta looks like he’s managing; Kohki, less so. But then and again, Kohki is three.

He dozes off on the sofa. In his dreams he’s fifteen again and everything sucks except for volleyball, which he doesn’t suck at, which he’s the best at. There’s a boy he thinks he might be in love with but first he wants to get a popsicle from the corner store. Wait a minute, he tells the boy. I’ll be right back. He runs to the corner store and buys his popsicle and runs back to the place where he had promised to meet the boy and it feels like no time has passed at all. Maybe three seconds, maybe three years. But the boy isn’t there anymore. The sun is setting. The street is empty, and there’s a volleyball bouncing by itself at the far end of it, silhouetted in red and orange and gray.

In the morning he’s awoken by yelling from three different directions and the smell of something burning. It’s unbearably, saccharinely sweet so it must be Atsumu again, perhaps with the help and passionate support of Inunaki. The time on the clock reads something fifty-two and he can’t be bothered to squint harder. It doesn’t really matter. Sun’s up anyway.

“MEIAN-SAN.”

He clears his throat. “COMING.”

He sighs, shakes the cramps out of his shoulders, and heads off to save his kids. The ridiculously tall and fast and powerful ones with the impulse control of a flock of mature geese. The ones who play volleyball.

  
::

  
Inunaki wants to go grocery shopping. This is not news as everyone generally wants to go grocery shopping, barring Atsumu who has been living in a bubble of sustained anxiety since they got here and is only maintaining his sanity because of Old Town Road and Hinata Shouyou. But this week Inunaki seems particularly agitated about it. He starts the morning off by trying to make sourdough and destroys the first bread machine. He gets pissed about that and destroys the second bread machine. He pulls down the giant projector screen in front of the sofa and blasts K-ON at full volume all afternoon while Sakusa tries to film a skincare tutorial and Bokuto tries to nap and the whole house smells like sourdough starter. Shuugo almost regrets drinking his peach purunto. No, he chides himself. You will not regret what cannot be changed. Like peach purunto and sake parties. Like sake parties.

In contrast Thomas has always seemed the most hinged of the lot, though recently Shuugo has been approaching the astronomical revelation that this may in fact be a false impression created to lure you into trusting him with your life. After all, borderline-nonexistent impulse control is an entry requirement for all members of the MSBY Black Jackals except for Barnes, who is not present. Every once in a while Shuugo catches Thomas staring off in Inunaki’s vague direction like a chicken stares at a smaller chicken. It worries him.

Through the combined efforts of Shouyou, Bokuto, and Atsumu, they trap Inunaki in Sakusa’s second bathroom without Sakusa’s knowledge and convince him to watch a purunto infomercial on Sakusa’s laptop, also borrowed without his knowledge. The infomercial is something like ten minutes long. It’s a contingency measure arranged by Sakusa several days ago. If you need to stop Inunaki-san, he said last Friday or Monday or perhaps Sunday, dabbing at his cheeks with pore cleanser while Shuugo leaned against the doorway of his first bathroom and played Candy Crush. Then use this.

So they use it. Inunaki is successfully eclipsed from the equation and Thomas and Shuugo haul ass to the old Toyota parked outside and while Sakusa dreams of whatever Sakusa is capable of dreaming of, like clean oyster shells and hand sanitizer commercials probably, they drive down the side of the mountain to the supermarket.

  
::

  
Meian Shuugo grew up in a prefecture just outside of Tokyo. It was the kind of bland suburban neighborhood that wasn’t particularly interesting and contained only three convenience stores, located next to the police station, behind the police station, and several hundred meters away from the police station beside the supermarket. By extension, the supermarket Meian Shuugo grew up with was not particularly interesting either. It had all of the aisles a supermarket was expected to have but it didn’t have a playground for kids or a box television for kids or a giant stuffed Pikachu in the candy aisle. Shuugo, being a kid for most of his childhood, was unimpressed.

The supermarket in the town located half an hour shy of their lodge reminds him, acutely, of his unimpressive youth. He walks through the sliding glass doors and is assaulted with upbeat music, chatter, crying babies. Perhaps in another life he was born in this town and grew up bounding up the side of a mountain, doing mountain-child things like chasing beetles and building rafts to float down the creeks that were embedded in its face. Perhaps in another life he grew up the exact same person.

Thomas hands him a list, then goes to grab a shopping cart. They work methodically; Shuugo reads out Thomas’ neat, Sharpied-in handwriting and Thomas grabs things from the aisle at record speeds. Shuugo wonders, this week as well, if Thomas is secretly telepathic.

“Toilet paper, the eight-pack.”

“Got it.”

No, he corrects himself. If Thomas were telepathic he would not have said no to Inunaki, who clearly wants to resolve the conflict they launched in the Izakaya last December even if his actions seem to say otherwise. Thomas hauls the toilet paper off the highest shelf and deposits it, with care, in their cart. Thomas the shopping cart chauffeur. Thomas the good guy.

“You’re a good guy, you know,” Shuugo says seriously. There’s not much left on their list; eggs, sake, dried seaweed sheets for Atsumu who has recently added it to his collection of coping mechanisms he picked off of self-care articles on Buzzfeed.

Thomas the shopping cart chauffeur turns to look at him. “I am?”

“Course you are.” Shuugo squats down in front of the chocolate section. His hand hovers over the thin row of plastic Chocobaby’s. It’s Kenta’s favorite.

Thomas laughs quietly. “Inunaki-san doesn’t seem to think so.”

If he buys the Chocobaby he’s sure Thomas won’t call him out for it. But Atsumu might, if he gets jumpy enough and his brain decides to latch onto it. And Sakusa definitely will. And even if neither of those things happen, who will eat it?

Shuugo sighs. “No, Thomas,” he says, stands up, brushes off the front of his pants. He grabs a bag of mini M&Ms resolutely, dumps it in their cart. “He does.”

“He does?” Adriah Thomas, twenty-eight this year and six-foot-seven, tall enough to strike fear in the hearts of most modern modes of transport including the Boeing 377, looks at him quizzically.

“You’re surprisingly dense, Thomas.” Shuugo takes over his chauffeur service for the time being and wheels their cart down the aisle towards the frozen goods section. His starting lineup may not be fond of tiny unimpressive chocolate pellets but he knows for a fact that ice cream will make the next week that much more bearable. “Maybe that’s how you got this far in life.”

“What does that mean, Meian-san?”

“C’mon. Let’s get more peach purunto.”

  
::

  
NINTENDO SWTICH????????????  
@m_tsumu

instagram user @joshokfine is the only remaining source of stability in my life. be like joshokfine. be better.

  
::

  
It starts pouring just a little shy of four in the morning on Saturday. Ordinarily one would be awake to witness this but they’ve been stuck up here for four weeks now, or maybe five, or maybe twenty-seven. No one sleeps when they’re expected to anymore except for Sakusa, who has packed enough moisturizing face masks to last him through the second coming of Christ.

So it starts raining and then the wind starts screaming and the windows start yelling and Shuugo is in the kitchen pouring himself something like his seventh cup of sake with sparkling fuji apple juice when Atsumu shows up at the end of the hallway in a giant pink quilt.

“Meian-san,” he croaks.

“Morning,” Shuugo says cheerfully, toasting him from the kitchen counter.

“It’s raining.”

“Yes.”

“It’s thundering.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t sleep.”

Shuugo sets his glass down. He combs a hand through his hair and cringes. When was the last time he showered? Yes. No? He removes himself from the kitchen, steps out into the dim orange light of the living room. Atsumu has designer eye bags and designer eye bags beneath his designer eye bags. The kid looks like he’s been through hell. Or had a nightmare about it. Or had a nightmare about something else, like a pandemic or Raymond from Animal Crossing or breaking up with his boyfriend in the middle of a pandemic while still being without Raymond from Animal Crossing.

Shuugo wipes his hand off on his shirt and clears his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  
::

  
The lodge is fucking huge. That was the first thought Shuugo had when they’d finally finished lugging all their shit up the side of the mountain and Thomas’ old Toyota had been parked in the clearing outside and Sakusa and Atsumu were arguing loudly about optimal bathtub water temperatures just beyond the front door. Seriously, Shuugo mused, craning his neck, this lodge is fucking huge. The living room was not a living room so much as it was a giant open space with a vaulted, three-storey ceiling and spiraling staircases that led off on each side to narrower, but equally majestic, hallways. Carved into the eastern wall of the first floor was a large, industry-grade kitchen which contained a walk-in fridge and a brick kiln. In the center of the floor was a floral sofa.

They argued over whether the space that the sofa, and the accompanying automated projector screen and thirty-nine succulents, occupied should be called a living room at all. This went on for the first few days. In the interim Shouyou and Thomas explored the kitchen and Atsumu explored setting the kitchen on fire. Atsumu also explored the door at the end of the northern hallway on the third floor, and discovered the hidden walk-in closet that probably hadn’t been opened since the economic bubble burst in the early 90s. Bokuto explored the attic above the third floor via a trap-door in the ceiling and declared that it was haunted. Inunaki drank peach purunto. Sakusa found a hornet's nest in the woods nearby and tried to bring it back.

They never did get to have the full-blown debate about whether the sofa space should be called a living room, because by the start of the second week or the third or maybe the tenth, maybe the eighteenth, the world had stumbled backwards into the figurative hornet's nest of life itself. It emerged from the immediate aftermath covered in burns and uglier burns and violent, angry scrapes. As China began to pull itself together by the seams its neighbors both immediate and distantly-related began to show symptoms, keeling over in the dystopian-movie-dust.

Come April, they were all in the thick of it. Of what, you ask? No one knew. But they sure were.

  
::

  
There’s something about rain and nighttime that demands your attention. Shut away in your highrise apartments and your suburban houses, your grandmother’s old Japanese-style estate; shut away at home with the lights on and the world off, the world cordoned out; the rain is the only thing that reaches you. The sound of it. The pitter-patter. The footsteps.

Meian Shuugo invites the rain to shut the fuck up as he herds his starting setter to the sofa. Atsumu has been going through it for a while now. They all know this, the way they know he talks to his twin on Zoom some nights because he doesn’t care for private user information and what happens to his. However, no one mentions it because unlike Bokuto, Atsumu has discovered the wall socket in his room, and decided to use it.

“Shouyou’s asleep,” Atsumu explains and for the hundredth time or maybe the thousandth, he doesn’t think numbers are real anymore, Shuugo marvels at how tenderly he says Shouyou’s name. If someone had said his name like that when he was twenty-three Shuugo would have driven off immediately and bought them a ring or challenged them to a Beyblade fight. He wonders if Shouyou will do either of those things one day. If he’ll get the chance to.

Shuugo hums. The star of the lodge, beyond the brick kiln with the unidentifiable bones and the thirty-eight succulents, is the chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Usually it’s bright as ass but it’s raining outside today and it’s four, so they’ve got the lighting mode set to Orange And Moody. Which, Shuugo gathers, seems to be the correct setting.

Atsumu opens his mouth, still wrapped up in the giant pink quilt that he probably stole from the hidden walk-in closet. “I’m being an asshole right now, aren’t I?” he asks, uncharacteristically quiet.

“Not right now right now, if that’s what you’re talking about—”

“—Meian-san.” Atsumu is unimpressed and he shows it too much. If he wants to look unimpressed he should look dimly unimpressed or at most vaguely unimpressed, or he’ll come off as being over-invested in the whole affair. Granted, the kid’s always been bad at handling his emotions. But this is a moment of what Shuugo recognizes to be shaky vulnerability. Even for Miya Atsumu.

Shuugo smiles. “Yeah?”

“That’s not funny.” Atsumu sinks further into the sofa, vanishing between two very large floral cushions.

No, Shuugo has half a mind to say. You’re not very funny. I try not to tell you that because Sakusa says it enough for all of us but really, most of your jokes suck.

“Well,” Shuugo says instead, thoughtful. “What does being an asshole mean to you?”

“Uh. An inconvenience?”

“What does the current situation look like to you?”

“An inconvenience?”

Shuugo claps his hands together and then winces in very quick succession. If he’s judging this right then there’s a high chance Inunaki’s still awake thinking about the Izakaya they went to last December, and Bokuto might still be in the attic. He should stop.

“That’s right,” says Shuugo, not stopping. “If being an asshole is about being an inconvenience then the whole world’s being inconvenienced right now. In general. Does this look like optimal functioning to you?” He gestures broadly around him and hopes that Atsumu doesn’t think he’s pointing at the thirty-eight succulents.

“Because it isn’t. Everyone’s tired, Atsumu. Everyone wants things to start getting better.

“So given that we’re basically living in the asshole of the universe right now, I don’t think you’re being an asshole. Do I wish you’d stop listening to Old Town Road while doing the dishes? Yes. But do I wish Thomas and Inunaki would stop pretending they never want to see each other’s faces again off-court like the two main leads in a Korean drama? Yes. Do I wish I were at home right now in Tokyo with Mai and Kenta and Kohki? Of course.

“But no one gives a damn about what I want in the asshole of the universe. So no one gives a damn about you either.” Shuugo reaches for his sake. “What I’m trying to say is: buy your switch.”

He takes a sip of his sparkling fuji apple sake thing. He’s good at holding his liquor but the alcohol’s loosened his tongue and the rain isn’t letting up and it’s late or it’s early, depending on who you ask. Depending on who you are, and what you’re afraid of. He wonders if Atsumu’s still thinking about the thirty-eight succulents. The thirty-ninth has been missing for a few weeks now. No one knows for how long exactly. Time, remember?

Atsumu furrows his brows. He seems to be thinking very intently about something. Shuugo hopes it’s the fate of the universe.

“So, the Animal Crossing edition,” he says slowly, the color returning to his cheeks. “Do you think I should get that one?”

Around them the rain continues to fall. Every once in a while a bolt of lightning comes within an arm’s breadth of their tiny sanctuary away from the world and the toilet paper shortages and all the suffering and cruelty and unfairness. It lands at their feet. Light erupts from the ground like a star splitting in half and sticks to their faces, their hands, their teeth. For half a second, the interior of the lodge turns so white, it almost blinds them.

  
::

  
Shuugo wakes up at five in the evening on the sofa. His toes aren’t frozen solid the way they were the last time he fell asleep on the sofa. He sits up. Something pink and fluffy slides off his chest.

Inunaki is yelling at Thomas from the second floor. They’ve made an error in the toilet paper calculations, or someone’s used up all eight rolls in a week, or both. Inunaki’s disappointed and upset and he wants to get out of the bathroom. And he wants to talk about the Izakaya incident. And he wants a peach purunto.

Shuugo scrubs the heel of his hand down his face. He stretches his arms over his head. Then he rolls off the sofa with the quilt still drawn tight around his shoulders like a cape. And so begins another day in the life of Meian Shuugo, father and husband and professional volleyball player, and motivational speaker, and friend.

  
::

  
A conversation between Shouyou and Atsumu, as overheard by Bokuto who was taking a really big dump in (Sakusa’s bathroom) (but don’t tell him that) (no one tell Sakusa anything no really I will sic my ghost on you):

(Shouyou, I have something to tell you.)

(Let me guess. You ordered the switch.)

(Huh????? How the fuck do you know I ordered the switch.)

(You talked to Meian-san, didn’t you?)

(What the fuck. Are you telepathic?)

(No, Atsumu. I’m your boyfriend.)

  
::

  
A conversation between Thomas and Inunaki, as overheard by Atsumu who was hiding from his demons in (Sakusa’s bathroom) (who the fuck owns a bathroom anyway) (this is a communal household) (I am not hiding from my demons I am engaged in an act of civil protest):

(Inunaki-san.)

(I know you’re not the one who finished all the peach purunto.)

(Oh. Okay.)

  
::

  
In a surprising twist of events Sakusa has not only brought enough moisturizing face masks to last him until the second coming of Christ, but also stashed a metric fuckton of toilet paper in his second bathroom.

“I knew you would disappoint us some day,” he says neutrally to Thomas, who goes off to cry in front of the barbecue pit for twenty minutes.

“It was partially my fault too,” Shuugo says, feeling apologetic for some reason.

Sakusa watches Thomas go with the face of a merciless, unsmiling god. “But mainly his.”

In spite of the hornet's nest he tried to bring back in the first week, Sakusa consents to the public use of his second bathroom. He deletes the contract he made Atsumu sign that had previously prevented him from legally entering, but refuses to let them port the twenty-four toilet paper rolls jammed under his sink to any of the other bathrooms. It’s a personal thing, he says while peeling his third milk honey face mask of the day off with his fingertips. Who are they to complain? It’s his toilet paper.

Regardless, the toilet paper doesn’t grant him immunity from Meian Shuugo, who despite his stunning alcohol consumption record is in fact still the parental supervision figure in this household. This gives Shuugo certain rights such as the right to walk into rooms without knocking, though he’s decided to stop doing that and become a better person, and the right to use the barbecue pit after ten. Also, if he says they’re going to have a Ghibli movie night, they’re going to have a Ghibli movie night.

They have the Ghibli movie night. On Sunday. Or Friday. Or whatever. Whatever. They have it.

When Shuugo was a kid his family would sit on their ugly living room couch and watch Ghibli movies together instead of working through their disagreements with transparency and care. This is partially why Shuugo was not a kid for as long as most kids, but he can tell you exactly which scene comes after the fat cat in The Cat Returns gets stuck in the giant vat of pink Jell-o. He can also tell you, with full confidence, that Ghibli movies will do things to you. What kind of things, you ask? Does it matter?

Once again, they head into the hidden walk-in closet on the third floor and return with piles of blankets, quilts, and a bag of Calbee chips without an expiry date. On the way out Shuugo notices shuffling from above him and discovers, for the first and hopefully last time in his life, Bokuto Koutarou in the attic having a serious conversation with an owl.

“His name is Aka,” says Bokuto.

“Very sly of you,” says Shuugo. “I’m not going to ask why there’s an owl up here.”

“He only visits sometimes.”

“Okay. Great.”

Bokuto follows him downstairs. Shuugo picks a feather out of his hair and wonders if this is what zookeepers feel like. They collect Sakusa from his bedroom after peeling off twelve honey-and-lavender face masks, and make a stop at Thomas' room. The door creaks open after a few seconds and Inunaki sticks his head out. His hair is tousled and his eyes are puffy.

“What do you want,” he says.

“We’re having a movie night.” Shuugo resists the urge to pat his head. He may be turning thirty this year but sometimes he feels like he’s eighty-five and everyone else on his team is four and he has to do something to make sure they grow up right.

Inunaki follows him and Sakusa and Bokuto down the stairs and Thomas sneaks out of the room afterwards when he thinks no one is looking. They are actually all looking and rightfully so, seeing as it is Thomas’ room they just stopped by and Inunaki should not have been there at all. But no one says anything. Thomas tip-toes down the stairs in all his Boeing 377 glory. Inunaki goes to the fridge.

Shouyou and Atsumu have returned from the hidden walk-in closet and have started building a fort in front of the projector screen. The process consists of Atsumu lying face-down on the floor, motionless, while Shouyou throws things with a hardness rating of less than five at him: a blanket, a stuffed Pikachu, a bolster.

“What movie are we starting with,” Atsumu asks.

Shuugo salutes him from the kitchen even though Atsumu can’t see him. “Princess Mononoke.”

Atsumu lifts his head for a moment and stares past the floor-to-ceiling window to the other side of the world, where he is having the time of his life in Florence.

“Good,” he says. Then Shouyou throws a slightly larger stuffed Pikachu at him, and he disappears from sight.

  
::

  
In Atsumu’s words, everything sucks like fucking shit. In Sakusa’s words, everything’s piss-awful. In Thomas' words everything is sort of unbearable and in Inunaki’s words where is the peach purunto. In Bokuto’s words Akaashi the shounen manga editor is more stressed than the entirety of Japan combined and needs some time to himself. In Shuugo’s words, ew. Ew, ew, ew.

“Ew,” Atsumu says when the mountain god’s head gets decapitated and the screen fills up with the blue liquid-y stuff that mountain gods are apparently made of. Inunaki gives him a look that’s so utterly and completely disgusted that Atsumu excuses himself from being Shouyou’s armrest and stands up.

“You wanna fight, Inunaki-san? You wanna fight?”

Inunaki does not detach himself from Thomas’ cashmere sweater. “No.”

“Atsumu, I can’t see the screen,” Shouyou says sleepily, and Atsumu’s expression does a one-eighty off a cliff and dies.

“Oh. Sorry.”

It’s three in the morning by the time they get to the fifth movie. Or is it six? Shuugo decides it doesn’t matter and then pulls a fast one on all of them by putting in Grave of the Fireflies which, Sakusa complains, is too dry for this time of the year. In spite of that, Sakusa is the only one who manages to watch it from start to finish, his eyes glued to the screen while he files his nails discreetly in his corner of the sofa. Beside him Inunaki has fallen asleep against Thomas’ shoulder and Thomas has fallen asleep against the headrest, Sakusa having pushed him gingerly off of him half an hour ago. Bokuto is snoring loudly with his face in Inunaki’s armpit. Beside Bokuto Atsumu is asleep with his head in Shouyou’s lap, and Shouyou is mumbling something incoherently about rice.

Meian Shuugo reaches for the remote control and turns the projector off.

“You should go to sleep too,” he tells Sakusa. He reaches for the blankets and begins to drape them carefully over the sofa in criss-crossing patterns.

Sakusa yawns. “When do you think this will end.”

Shuugo shrugs. “Eventually.”

Sakusa inclines his head, then stands up and stretches. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.” He collects his belongings from the coffee table and goes to the kitchen for water.

“No, thank you for the toilet paper.”

“Self-preservation skills. You learn them early on in life when you’re me.”

  
::

  
They stop having the Animal Crossing Debate because Atsumu’s switch arrives next week, delivered by a courier in an inflatable T-Rex costume who says he’s here on god’s business. But they keep going with the whiteboard and the six p.m. discussions and everyone jammed up on the big sofa in the living room. It still doesn’t feel like a living room and the lodge still feels like a castle, complete with ghosts and unidentifiable bones and the ouija board Sakusa’s smuggled away to his room. But when they roll up all the curtains, the floor-to-ceiling windows start communicating with god or something, and the sun does a cool break-and-enter routine that ends in fireworks. Everything it touches goes up in flames. It’s kind of beautiful.

“Today’s question.” Thomas raps the whiteboard they stole from the hidden walk-in closet weakly. “Should we have spaghetti for dinner?”

Atsumu looks up from his switch, and Shouyou follows. “Did you read my tweet?”

“Atsumu. I follow you on Twitter.”

“Oh.” Atsumu looks back down at his switch. On Shouyou’s insistence he’s recently downloaded Kirby Star Allies. He is surprisingly into it.

Inunaki raises his hand. “Objection your honor,” he says. “I don’t think we should have spaghetti for dinner because it sucks.”

Thomas makes a face at him. It doesn’t really work because he’s six-foot-seven and wearing a Victorian suit he found in the hidden walk-in closet, but apparently it works for Inunaki, who repeats, with more conviction, “it sucks.”

“It does not suck,” Thomas insists. He begins to lean against the whiteboard in an unconscious bid to look like he’s not emotionally affected by Inunaki’s words.

“Can we have rice,” Sakusa says. “We’re Japanese.”

“I’m not Japanese.”

“You’re Inunaki’s boyfriend. Honorary Japanese.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Sure it is,” says Bokuto, who is back to texting Akaashi for the time being instead of calling him on Skype. He now carries a power bank and a cable with him everywhere. To the bathroom. To the barbecue pit. To the woods.

“Why don’t we have both?” Shouyou suggests. Shouyou is the literal and metaphorical light of their lives right now, although Sakusa would be hard-pressed to admit it unless they gave him another bathroom. Shouyou also comes up with some of the most god-awful ideas sometimes. Like inviting everyone to a lodge in the mountains during the off-season and getting them trapped in a major historical event. Like trying to live each day to the best of his ability as if he’s Rapunzel from Disney’s Tangled and not twenty-three and severely, inhumanely sleep-deprived. He still wakes up at five-thirty every morning. Shuugo asked him about it once. He said he needed the time to meditate.

“Why don’t you just meditate later?” Shuugo went on, hanging over the back of the sofa and watching Shouyou channel his inner Buddha of peace for something like the third time that week. The sun had not yet risen but it was beginning to put in efforts towards it. A thin strip of gold ran horizontally between the land and the sky, dividing them in jagged and uneven strokes.

“It’s not the same,” Shouyou said, exhaling through his mouth, eyes closed. Shuugo wondered briefly if he was bothering him, then figured that Shouyou would tell him if he was.

“I need to be awake each morning to make sure the world’s still there. To say good morning.”

Shuugo picked idly at the upholstery. “What happens if you aren’t there?”

“Who knows,” Shouyou laughed, brilliantly and confidently, and in that moment Shuugo understood for the first time in his life how he alone had not succumbed to the timeless insanity of quarantine. Perhaps in another life Shouyou had been born tall and powerful and with the kind of instinct and skill that Kageyama Tobio carried around on his shoulders all day. In this one, he had seen the second coming of Christ once already, and built himself a new skin in its wake.

It was the routines. The morning meditation and the rolled eggs and the five-hour-nap in Atsumu’s room. The evening runs through the woods and the card games at night. It was Atsumu’s Animal Crossing Debate and the chaos that always followed, the chaos that generally followed the MSBY Black Jackals everywhere they went, as if they had been born into incredulity and outrageousness and passion. Passion for their sport. Passion for life itself.

They aren’t professional adults. No one ever becomes a professional adult. They try to be professional siblings and children and lovers, professional commuters and pastry chefs and shopping cart pushers. They try to leave their suburban neighborhoods and the boys they never get to see again behind. They try to be kind to themselves, even as the world begins to slide resolutely off a cliff.

And they fail. And everything sucks. And everything’s sort of unbearable right now. Even Sakusa has stopped checking his phone religiously. They’d rather watch Grave of the Fireflies ten more times than put on NHK news.

So ew. Ew at the present state of the universe. Ew at Shuugo’s hair. Ew at the amount of money Atsumu spent on his Animal Crossing switch which came with a tempered glass screen protector and the Animal Crossing pouch and the Animal Crossing: New Horizons game and a laminated mini-poster of Raymond.

And fine. Because what else can they do now but shut up and keep going? If there’s a God up there he’s definitely laughing at them with his hands full of nail clippers and clean surgical masks and health, cash, all the forgiveness the world needs right now. He’s probably making coffee as they run themselves into the ground, as they run their rivers dry.

So everything’s been going to shit for a while now. You’d think they’d get used to it, but they still haven’t. Which is to say that they’re still angry enough to fall in love and expect something to happen. Which is to say that they haven't given up on their dream of finding a ghost in the hidden walk-in closet. Which is to say that, in spite of the toilet paper shortages and the hornet's nest and the weepy sake parties, all the fucking weepy sake parties, there’s hope.

  
::

  
Are you sure you’ll be okay?

(The sound of rain, laughter, a ball hitting the ground.)

Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/nikiforcvs) or [tumblr](http://corpsentry.tumblr.com/)
> 
> quote is from rain moving in, john ashbery.  
> after clowning oikawa in the shrek fic i was so tired i passed out face-down on the floor for a month. in the interim i 1) preordered a nintendo switch 2) dreamed about fire emblem three houses and 3) started sleeping at 8 in the morning. this fic started as a joke, as do most of my fics, and spiraled off into a mass projection of all my anxieties onto the various members of the msby starting lineup. if you must know, my pick for self-insert in this fic is atsumu. let me know yours.  
> in all seriousness, this sucks. time doesn't exist anymore. that sucks. it's may and i'm old now (91) and that sucks too but above all leaving the house one time in one month to get a rock from the mailbox sucks the most. so here i am bitches. writing about that suck. and also sort of philosophizing about it. and using it to remind myself and everyone around me that regardless of how many hours of sleep we miss each week (which may be all of them), the world will go on. you will go on.  
> in all seriousness part 2 thank you for reading this fic. if you liked it please consider leaving kudos, comments, etc, but the tree outside your house is fine as well. in all honesty if i was able to make your quarantine day just a little bit better, then my work here is done. these are weird as hell times. this is a weird as hell fic. i did not give much thought to the plausibility of the scenario i came up with, and i have decided not to try.  
> as time continues to (not exist) i hope that you are all taking care of yourselves and not sleeping at eight in the morning like me. the sunrise is boring as hell. the cat returns is a great movie and the lodge i constructed in this fic was by and large inspired by the setting of the horror game 'until dawn'. if you're having a shitty day, let me know and i'll dial up god and tell him to stop.
> 
> have a good one


End file.
